Authors: Tim Waggoner
Eve owned and operated the House of Unearthly Delights, a brothel near Somerset where, as county legend had it, any and all desires could be fulfilled — for a price. Prostitutes were excellent sources of information since their customers often talked as much, if not more, than they did anything else. But upon hearing Sadie’s suggestion, Dale felt a cold, clenching sensation in his gut, as if a giant hand of ice had grabbed hold of his stomach and squeezed. “In all the years I’ve lived and worked in Cross County, I have never once consulted Eve, and I don’t intend to do so now.”
Sadie’s eyes narrowed in an appraising look. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of her.”
“No, but I
am
afraid of what she can do,” Dale said, then in a softer voice added, “As valuable as information is, sometimes the price is simply too high.”
• • •
Sadie took pity on Dale and dropped him off close to shore so he wouldn’t have so far to paddle his raft. She didn’t stick around to make sure he reached land safely, though. The instant he untied his raft from the boarding ladder, she engaged the engine and headed back toward the middle of the lake.
Dale managed to get to shore without overturning his rubber raft. He pulled it onto land, deflated it, shook it a couple times to get the water off, then folded it up. He started back toward the Jeep, the raft and paddle under one arm, Sadie’s report tucked away in a pocket of his suit jacket. As he walked, he told himself that he didn’t feel himself being watched, that there was no shadowy movement between the trees on the other side of the road. Nevertheless, the skin on the back of his neck crawled as he tossed the deflated raft and paddle in the back of his Jeep, then climbed behind the wheel. He forced himself not to look toward the trees as he started the engine and pulled onto Limberlost Road.
As he accelerated, he checked the rearview mirror out of habit. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a glimpse of something black following at a distance, running sleek and low to the ground. But when he blinked, whatever it was — if indeed it had been real at all — was gone.
Dale increased his speed, though. Just in case.
Still, the itch on the back of his neck remained, and a disturbing thought occurred to him. What if Sadie’s Black Beast had gotten tired of waiting for her to make landfall and had decided to seek out other prey? Like a reporter who should’ve retired by now. He forced a laugh and told himself it was a foolish notion. But he didn’t look in his rearview mirror again all the way back to town.
• • •
Tyrone Gantz sat on a bus-stop bench across the street from the Burrito Bungalow. A sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to a Camaro. A ‘78, Tyrone guessed, though by no means was he an expert on cars. A deputy he recognized but whose name he didn’t know — probably one of the newer additions to the department, he figured — stood next to the vehicle, talking with the Bungalow’s manager, a skinny kid with an acne-scarred face who looked ridiculous wearing the large floppy sombrero that was part of his uniform. There was enough traffic going by that Tyrone couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he had a good idea.
He sensed someone approaching from behind, and he steeled himself for what was to come. He doubted it was Dale again, not so soon. That meant it most likely was another deputy, maybe even Sheriff Talon herself. Dale had doubtless told the sheriff what he’d learned from Tyrone, and the sheriff would want him to make an official statement. Tyrone didn’t want to be bothered. He didn’t mind doing his civic duty, but he didn’t want to waste time that could be put to better use observing. He supposed there was no avoiding it, though, and if he’d really wanted to, he wouldn’t have sat here in plain sight. Better to get it over and done with so he could return to his sacred work of bearing witness.
Tyrone didn’t take his gaze off the scene across the street as the newcomer took a seat on the bench next to him.
“Good afternoon, Tyrone.”
The voice startled him so much that he almost sprang off the bench. With an effort, he kept his seat and turned to face Marshall Cross.
Tyrone tried to respond, but his voice refused to work. He swallowed and tried again. “The same to you.”
“It’s shaping up to be a lovely day, don’t you think?” Marshall looked up at the sky. “The forecast said there was a chance of rain, but I think it’s going to hold off until tonight.” Marshall turned to Tyrone and showed his teeth in what could only nominally be called a smile. “What do you think?”
“Hard to say.”
Marshall nodded as if Tyrone had just uttered a profound piece of wisdom. “True, true.”
They sat quietly for the next several minutes, watching as the deputy across the street continued questioning Mr. Sombrero.
“I’ve never eaten there myself,” Marshall said after a time. “I don’t imagine the food’s any good.”
“Not really. But you didn’t come here to discuss the culinary merits of fast food. What do you want?”
“No need to be so defensive, Tyrone. I only want from you what everyone else does: information.”
“You want to know about what I saw happen at the Caffeine Café last night.”
“Not unless there’s anything you neglected to tell Dale this morning.”
For an instant, Tyrone feared Dale had passed along what he’d learned to Marshall Cross. That Dale had told Sheriff Talon didn’t bother him. He knew how close the two of them were. But for Dale to tell Marshall … then he realized there was no way Dale would’ve told Marshall anything. The reporter had no more love for the Crosses than Tyrone did.
And then it hit him. “Ronnie Doyle. We saw you do something to him in the Café’s parking lot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you were observing closely — and I’m certain you were — you saw that I didn’t lay a hand on him.” Marshall leaned closer, and his ice-blue eyes seemed to glitter for an instant. “But if I
had
done something to Ronnie to make him more cooperative, I’d wager it would’ve been something you’d rather not experience firsthand.”
Tyrone averted his gaze so he wouldn’t have to look into Marshall’s piercing eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything else that might shed light on what happened last night. You see many things that others don’t, Tyrone. But I know you only give out the information you wish to. Perhaps you held something back from Dale.” Marshall nodded toward the scene taking place across the street. “For instance, do you have any idea what’s happening over there?”
Tyrone focused his attention on the deputy and Mr. Sombrero, grateful to have something other than Marshall Cross’s eyes to look at. “Dale only asked about the Café. He didn’t ask about the Burrito Bungalow.”
“Ah! So you
do
know something!”
Tyrone certainly did. He also knew that Marshall Cross wasn’t going to be happy when he heard what it was. But he also knew that if he didn’t tell Marshall what he wanted to know, the man would attempt to force him, just like he had Ronnie. And Tyrone knew what happened to folks the Crosses tried to persuade in their special way. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He needed his mind to remain sharp and clear if he was carry on his duties as the county’s witness.
“I’m only guessing,” Tyrone began, “but I’d say that Camaro belongs to the boy who was murdered last night.”
“His name is Ray Porter,” Marshall supplied. “And that was my guess too. I don’t suppose you happened to observe anything here last night?”
Tyrone wanted to lie, but it wasn’t his way. If someone asked him a straight question, he always answered it honestly — even if that someone was a Cross.
“As a matter of fact, I did. After I saw what happened at the Caffeine Café, I started walking in this direction. The Bungalow is one of the few places open late in town, and I thought if anything else interesting was going to happen last night, there was a good chance it would be here.”
A predatory gleam came into Marshall’s eyes. “Sounds as if you guessed right. Tell me what you saw.”
“I didn’t think much of it until today when I saw the boy’s Camaro was back. The deputy was already in the parking lot when I arrived.” He knew he was stalling, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Back in the lot?” Marshall asked. “You saw it here last night?”
Tyrone nodded. “The boy stopped in at 11:08 p.m. He met a young woman, she got into his car, and they drove off together. I didn’t hear anything they said to one another, but from their body language, I had the impression that they already knew each other.”
“Interesting. Can you describe the girl for me?”
“I can do better than that. I can tell you her name.”
Tyrone paused, and after a moment, Marshall said, “Well?”
Tyrone sighed. He knew he couldn’t put this off any longer. “Lenora Cross.”
Marshall stopped back at the county building later in the afternoon. Neither Joanne nor Terry was in, and thankfully the media had come and gone. Ronnie was still there, though, and he was all Marshall needed. Ronnie let him into the coroner’s office, and Marshall spent several undisturbed moments alone with the body of Ray Porter. When he was finished, he gently slid the boy’s table back into the freezer and departed. He didn’t thank Ronnie on his way out. One didn’t thank tools. One merely used them as needed.
It was close to five by the time Marshall drove his Hummer up the long winding driveway that led to Sanctity. Huge oak trees line the driveway on both sides, their long shadows merging to create a dark passage between the outside world and the ancestral Cross home. The ironic effect was not lost on Marshall.
He didn’t feel like letting one of the servants park his vehicle. He was doing his best to control his anger, but he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. More to the point,
he
didn’t want to see anyone. Not until he’d spoken with Lenora. So he drove past the main house, circled around to the back, and pulled into a garage the size of a small aircraft hangar. As he parked his Hummer, he noted the number of cars — all high-class, all expensive — already parked there. Though only Althea Cross’s immediate family resided at Sanctity, the mansion was technically home to all within the family, and Crosses came and went as they pleased. Many lived elsewhere in the county, working as doctors, lawyers, real estate agents, and such. If they felt like working at all, that is. Every Cross had access to more money than could be spent in a single lifetime, provided they remained in Althea’s good graces. But Sanctity was Mecca for Crosses that lived farther away, and Marshall noted license plates from Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Kentucky. Undoubtedly a number of the other vehicles in the garage were airport rentals, used by family members that lived too far away to drive.
Normally, the prospect of seeing so many visiting relatives upon coming home would’ve filled Marshall with a mixture of anticipation and pride. But now he was just irritated. As the current head of the household — below Althea herself, of course — it was his job to greet the guests, spend a few moments making small talk, and in the process reassuring them that their current status in the family was not only intact, but dangling the possibility before them that their fortunes stood a halfway decent chance of rising, should they play their cards right. Althea herself wouldn’t come down from her room — she rarely did — though she would receive a handful of visitors, if Marshall approved of them. Important if not especially pleasant duties for the man whose license plates read CROSS2. But he had more important fish to fry tonight.
He walked across the immaculately kept grounds between the garage and the main house, past the flower garden, the gazebo, topiaries shaped like mythical creatures, and a marble fountain in the middle of a mosaic tiled courtyard. Even as he struggled to maintain control of his anger, he noted with satisfaction that everything looked perfect, just as it should.
He reached into the main pocket of his suit jacket and touched the grainy surface of the small stone carving within. The figure’s crude features were roughly human, and the object was warmer than could be accounted for by simply absorbing Marshall’s body heat. He knew he should take the icon to the Reliquary right away, but he feared he was too furious with Lenora to achieve the proper state of mind. He supposed the task could wait a bit, though the sooner he attended to it, the better.
He entered the main house through the kitchen entrance, startling the coterie of chefs preparing the evening meal. They turned to face him as he moved past, like troops presenting themselves for their commander’s review. Marshall ignored them and continued on. He sniffed the air and was glad to discover that tonight’s main course was going to be lamb, one of his favorites. That was something to look forward to at least.
He left the kitchen and continued down a long corridor. He checked the library and the gallery, nodding perfunctory greetings to the relatives that were there, sipping mixed drinks and nibbling hors d’oeuvres from trays carried by unobtrusive servants. He finally found Lenora in the solarium, sitting on a marble bench and drinking a mojito with a handsome blonde-haired, tanned young man in a polo shirt and designer jeans who was doing his best to impress her with how charming and witty he was. They were the only two people in the room.
The solarium was one of the most beautiful rooms in Sanctity. It had a tiled floor, glass ceiling, and marble benches, along with an indoor garden comprised of palm trees, hibiscus, and orchids. Tiny songbirds perched on leaves or flitted about the room, and their singing combined with the soft trickle of water from the Solarium’s centerpiece, an artificial waterfall on the far side of the room, to create a soothing soundscape.
Marshall felt no real resentment toward the lad for chatting up his daughter. Lenora was beautiful, even by Cross standards, and she looked especially fetching tonight in a black mini dress and high heels. For a moment he stood in the doorway and just looked at her. She might not have been the mirror image of her mother — her forehead was too high, her blue eyes too large — but she still resembled Charlotte so much that sometimes it took his breath away.